


In the Place Where Only the Mountains Can Hear Us Scream

by woozdum



Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Avatar & Benders Setting, Depictions of Death, Implied Chan/Yein, M/M, fake deep
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-16
Updated: 2018-01-16
Packaged: 2019-03-05 14:49:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13390134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/woozdum/pseuds/woozdum
Summary: They never mention his name. There is too much at stake to admit that the nations together killed the avatar. In the Earth Kingdom, saying his name might as well be treasonous, worthy of contempt and disgrace.It is a name that has gone unspoken for so long, many do not remember it at all.Chan is twenty-five when he learns it.(Or the untold story of how the fallen Fire Nation prince and the late Avatar loved and lost)





	In the Place Where Only the Mountains Can Hear Us Scream

**Author's Note:**

> wowowowoowow can yall believe i finally finished this 12 days after it was due!!!! truth be told i have not watched LoK because if i watched it then that would mean i would actually have to accept that aang is dead but then i got spiteful bc this guy i was talking to was like "it sucks that they made her go gay" as if she's fucking danny phantom going ghost yk anyway ! i still haven't seen the series but i subscribe to the LoK narrative and tried to follow some of the plot points introduced there while introducing some of my own as well because why the fuck not 
> 
> prompt #111: snwu as avatar the last airbender benders! 
> 
> CONTENT WARNING: The death scene starts with the lines: “What do you know about the moon goddess” to “The memory dissipates, like walking through fog...” The scene directly after it still talks about death. It ends with the line “There is fog once more...” If you would like for me to simply explain that part or if you think further tw/cw are needed, please let me know!

There is a neutral place, an unclaimed territory that has remained as such since the last war.

Chan doesn’t know much about it, fed only the blatant propaganda fed to him by his elders. Taught that a brave man rode out into the heart of the war, into grounds no one dared to enter, and fought to unite the divided lands. It is tragic, and perhaps a little ironic, that his untimely death would lead to years of unwavered unity.

They never mention his name. There is too much at stake to admit that the nations together killed the avatar. In the Earth Kingdom, saying his name might as well be treasonous, worthy of contempt and disgrace.

It is a name that has gone unspoken for so long, many do not remember it at all.

Chan is twenty-five when he learns it.

He has always had an affinity for bending. The earth molds under his touch for the first time at the tender age of four. He molds building blocks from rock, bending mud from the front yard into little marbles, and slowly he creates a plethora of toys to play with. No one sees how he accidentally bursts a pipe in the sink out of anger, nearly flooding the house, and so no one realizes how special the boy is.

At age nine, he blows the candle of his pretend birthday cupcake so forcefully it splatters the food against the yellow tinted white wall, toppling over the vase that held his mother’s favorite flowers. He plants a bed of roses in her garden as an apology.

At twelve, he learns about the first avatar, Wan. There is a large push after his death, to implement a more rigorous and fundamental understanding of the history of the avatars in the Earth Kingdom. Chan’s friend Yein says that her mother says it is because they are trying to draw out the next avatar. The previous one was born into the Southern Water Tribe, so, whoever they are, the new avatar is somewhere learning mindless stories about the avatars from the first Harmonic Convergence.

Yein comes from a family of non-benders. The House of Jung is well respected for doing honorable business in the marketplace. Whenever Chan goes to bargain for groceries, Yein’s mother is sure to give him just a little extra to take home. They are good people.

At age fifteen, his mother passes away in her sleep. There’s a vase of roses from the garden by her bedside. In a fit of rage, Chan burns them, flicking his wrist so the sparks from the fireplace slowly incinerate the petals. He thinks nothing of it as he shifts the earth to swallow the flames.

In school, he and Yein are training. Chan commands the earth to his calling, forms rigid and tight, as he whirls boulders at Yein’s person, watching the latter slice through them with her hatchet. They do this quite often, in tune with each other’s sparring tendencies, evenly matched in wit and skill. He is relentless in his attacks until Yein shouts out, jumping away from a funnel of flames. It is then he realizes that the courtyard has gone silent, and he clenches his fist, dissipating the fire that was bursting out of his fingers.

He blinks, standing up straight.

Yein throws a rock at him.

The King names him the next avatar later that very day. The first born into the Earth Kingdom in nearly two and a half centuries is something to be very proud of. They hail him as though he is the king himself, parading him from his one story flat on the outskirts of the lands to the heart of the city. He is awarded with riches and jewels, saddled with expectations and hope, plagued with apprehension and fear.

He meets the Grand Lotus in charge of training him, a man named Junhui. He is an airbender, but more importantly, a master in avatar history. He brings with him scrolls and books, records of the avatars before Korra of the second Harmonic Convergence. He is told that every moment, every skill after that is within him, that only he can learn about those lives, those fallen warriors.

It is an isolating experience, he is away from his friends for longer periods of time, demanded to understand and be so much more than he can be at sixteen. But Junhui is helpful, patient. When Chan completes his education at the age of eighteen and masters earthbending in its truest form, he is the one to teach the avatar how to harness the element of air. It is hard, there is so much everywhere and Chan has trouble controlling the power of his attacks, does not know how to harness the wind.

The flying is fun though.

(Yein does not like it, holding onto the sphere of air Chan forms under her butt and screams as it whizzes around, defying gravity.)

It seems like a betrayal, to enjoy flying more than he enjoys his time on the ground. The freedom to exist in the air is nothing like the burdens that await him on land. He never says it, yet somehow Junhui seems to know anyway, simply carding a hand through his hair when it gets hard, muttering to him of how well he is doing.

It takes him a little over four years to bend air and it worries him that he will be shipped off to the Northern Water Tribe in a week’s time to learn the ways of waterbending.

He asks Junhui to come with him, unknowing if the latter is willing to leave his position behind to travel the world with the uncertain avatar. All he gets is a hidden smile as the man reveals his already packed bags.

Saying goodbye to Yein is the hardest, so he leaves her until the end. He leaves the palace after the King gives him a very lavish, very public send off. It’s a nice gesture, despite being a thinly veiled publicity stunt. He almost walks right past her house, not daring to enter, but Yein is there, as if anticipating his indecision.

“I’m hurt that you didn’t think to ask me to come along,” she smiles, holding a note in her hand.

“I wouldn’t make you choose between me and your life here.”

Yein steps forward, tucking the note in his bag. “You’re good like that. A brat, maybe, but a good friend nonetheless. Promise me that you will only read that note when you’ve completed your training.”

Chan’s throat closes up, and he wills away the tears.

“I promise.”

“Good.”

He and Junhui set out towards the Tribes. It is a long trip, a three month commute, but it is worth it, judging by the welcome that they get.

His time with the water tribe is uneventful. He spends a majority of it mastering the techniques and makes a few allies (he does not know if they are close to be considered friends) along the way. Waterbending comes naturally to him, a compliment to his mother element. He supposes it is because water and earth exist in harmony, not as polar opposites.

Junhui gets a fond look in his eye when Chan creates his first wave. It is almost nostalgic, but he blinks it away when he catches Chan looking, choosing to give him a thumbs up and wide smile instead.

Waterbending is formative, his time there even moreso. The water flows for him, moves for him, dances for him on his count, to his beat, always yielding. It is comfortable, reassuring in a way he has not known before. He sleeps every night, tempted to open Yein’s letter, but dares not in any case.

The envelope lays there, tucked into his sack. They do not contact each other in this time, but Chan does not forget nor does he feel forgotten.

It takes only two years to proficiently bend, and so he departs, giving Jisoo a hug and a promise to continue to hone in on his abilities. He will miss Jisoo. He pushed where Chan struggled, pulled when Chan’s frustrations got the better of him, like the waves themselves. Always gave advice with a smile, delivered criticism with a twinkle in his eye, but it is when he hugs him tightly that Chan thinks Jisoo is familiar, that he is family.

It is odd.

He asks Junhui why he might feel this way but Junhui just smiles sadly, shaking his head.

Two days prior to their departure, Junhui had asked Chan who he would like to teach him the art of firebending. There have been many offers from the Fire Nation, Junhui tells him and it sounds vaguely condescending.

It is a weighted decision, he has never chosen a master before. After all, Junhui had selected Jisoo to be his waterbending master.

“I have a question,” Chan asks cautiously.

Junhui simply hums, cutting through the vines of the forest. He seems at peace in here, as if the forest would not dare to hurt him. At peace with the element he should call his opposite.

“Why are you letting me pick my master now, but not before?”

Junhui turns around, walking backwards as he scrutinizes the man before him. Chan notices how old he is getting, wrinkles appearing on his forehead, thinned out graying hair in a long braid down his back.

“I had a promise to keep. I had to bring him home.” Junhui says softly, looking up to the vacancy where the moon is meant to be. It has not appeared in years, casting the world into darkness. “They were cousins. Jisoo and your former self, that is. They grew up learning how to bend together.”

He turns around and continues hacking away at the trees. Chan follows, curious to hear more.

“You two are a lot alike. Both cautious and stubborn, yet still compassionate. Both muscling on despite being given the biggest burden imaginable, despite being so young, never accusing, never complaining.” He smiles, looking back at Chan, “Both with a terrible sense of humor. And both, I imagine, with hearts full of love and tongues that snark for the same reason.

“I promised Jisoo, the day he was killed, that I would bring him home,” he mutters the words slowly. “I was never able to make good on that promise, until now. So thank you, I suppose. For giving him closure.”

Chan shakes his head, “Jisoo deserves as much.”

“Very true, but he is not who I am talking about.”

Chan opens his mouth, thoughts running wayward as he tries to make sense of all that he does not know, all that he is not taught.

Junhui clears his throat and asks, “Have you decided on a teacher yet?”

Chan is not foolish enough to press the subject, and instead answers his mentor, “There is someone, but I do not know who he is or where to find him.”

Somehow, he feels Junhui might.

The story of the disgraced prince was famous amongst the four nations. The story of the man who renounced his title and ended his family legacy in the name of love.

To most, it is a fable, an old childhood story meant to teach children the value of family, to warn them of the dangers of careless, blinding love. The widely accepted narrative paints the fallen prince as ill, unfit to take his place on the throne.

To Chan, the story is a sign, to learn from one of the most powerful firebenders of the century, one who trained with the previous avatar. Perhaps, he’ll be willing to train another.

The last known whereabouts of the prince said he lives east of the Earth Kingdom, in the mountains outside of Ba Sing Se. It is only appropriate that he finally come home.

Junhui smiles with such light that Chan has never seen as he nods, small hairs tumbling out of his braid. “I will take you to him. However, I am afraid that will be where we part ways.” His tone is one of absolute certainty, not leaving room for Chan to argue or press the situation further. He tucks hair behind his ears, and Chan detects some pinkness at the tips. He ignores it, likely a symptom of the brutal heat, and urges Junhui instead. “He will be a good teacher for you. A fair one. He understands the plight of the avatar better than anyone. It is a good choice.”

He continues walking, tapping the ground with his walking stick to create small gusts of wind to clear the debris from his path.

“We should travel quickly to the next village. The forest is not so forgiving in the night, especially without the blessing of the moon goddess.”

It is past nightfall when they arrive at a small tavern in a neighboring village outside the walls of the City. On most nights, when they travel, Chan is hailed as a deity, something he has never gotten used to. It is odd to watch strangers fall over themselves for him, lavishing him in luxuries and accolades when he has done nothing to deserve them. On this night, however, it is Junhui who is praised. He is welcomed into the establishment like a man coming home after years of being away. There is a tall woman, dressed in green as one does in the Kingdom, but hair is short and bobbed, bangs clipped back with a pin.

Junhui takes her in his arms, and they embrace like old friends, a love between them that has never seemed to stop growing.

“I wanted to pay him a visit. With him, I mean.” They look back at Chan, who is still standing in the middle of the tavern, surrounded by bags and an air of confusion.

The woman dabs her eyes with her apron, “Oh, is that him? Chan, is it?” She opens out her arms and walks until he is in her arms. He feels it again, that familiarity, that love.

A name jumps out at him.

“Ji. Hoon?” He whispers silently into her shoulder and she gasps, stumbling back, nearly falling over the bags he has surrounded himself with.

She slaps her hands to his cheeks so his lips pucker out and stares him in the eyes. “How did you know that name?” She demands, tears welling in her eyes.

Chan shakes his head, overwhelmed. “I-it just kind of jumped out at me, I guess.”

She hiccups and steps back. “I suppose that is possible, for you.”

Chan is bewildered, with no way to interpret what that means. Instead he picks up his and Junhui’s bags and creeps into the room that the latter disappeared into. When he draws back the divider curtain, he sees Junhui sitting cross legged in front of a picture of a man, an urn in front of it, on a shelf.

“Chan,” Junhui calls out to him without turning around, “This is Jihoon. He was a friend of mine, an earthbender like you. Hoon-ah, I brought someone to see you.”

Chan bows his head, and sits down next to Junhui, looking up at the man’s picture. “He looks so young.”

“He was young, gone too soon, I think. A talented bender and archer, but an even better friend. He and I fought in the war together, actually. We all did, Kyungwon, and even you, I suppose. In your former life, that is.” Junhui looks at him, eyes glazed over, “I don’t mean to burden you, Chan. I just wished to bring him here, I suppose. No one ever really gets to say goodbye during war. Not in a way that is meaningful, at least.”

The way Junhui talks, it is like he has experienced more than Chan could ever bare to witness. Sometimes, it makes him question whether the Spirit World chose right, when selecting him to be the next avatar.

He does not sleep a wink that night, apprehension taking control of his thoughts. He lays awake, watching his memories swirl together, seeing memories he presumes are not his own. There is a face that jumps out, a young man with black hair falling into his eyes, thin lips that smile so brightly his cheeks puff out and his eyes close until they are barely open. He is a familiar man, one that Chan has never actually met. He recognizes him from the history records, from when Junhui drilled into his head the lineage of the Kwon Dynasty so many years ago. The prince of the Nation.

It’s curious, he has experienced something quite like this, but as soon as it appears, it disappears and he is just left with that many more questions. He closes his eyes, sure that he will not get a wink of sleep.

Sure enough, when morning comes, he rises bleary eyed, having tossed and turned all night. He must look as awful as he feels because when he ambles out of the guest room, bags packed and clothes thrown on haphazardly, Kyungwon simple smiles at him and passes him a bowl of soup that is so bitter it jolts the tiredness out of him.

They set out towards the mountain, making small talk mostly. The two do not have many commonalities, it seems, and Junhui seems determined to get Chan to the prince.

“Why did we really come here,” Chan asks as they travel through the forest. He can tell that they are reaching the end of their journey.

“Closure.” He looks at Chan, and nods at him. “For both of us.”

“You don’t talk about him much, you know. It’s like, every now and again, we visit someone or I feel something vaguely familiar but I don’t know it at all. I have all these memories and feelings scattered around but no way to piece them together. I don’t even know his name.

“I don’t intend for you to feel bad, or that you owe me something. It is just hard, to neither know where you are going nor where you come from. It is like, until now I’ve known what I must do, that each chapter has been so efficiently laid out before me. But after this, after mastering firebending, my life will aimless, and I do not know where to start looking for purpose.” Chan sighs. “It’s hard.”

“I could tell you much about him,” Jun says, “His name, for starters. But I do not think it is my place to give you that. It is not my story to tell.”

“Well then, what can you tell me? About him or the prince or anyone. Please Junhui, I need answers.”

Junhui stops walking abruptly, and Chan walks straight into his back, stumbling backwards.

“I can tell you that this is where we part ways.” Junhui smiles, tapping his fingers to the mountain, allowing a gust of wind to brush away leaves and twigs, leaving a path that seems worn and unused.

Chan ambles up the mountain, planting his feet sideways and bringing his flattened hands towards his body, letting the ground shift under him, ultimately allowing him to glide all the way to the top. There is a small arch, where two trees have grown slanted, both vying for the sunlight, their drooping branches creating a curtain of leaves that to ward off entry. Chan walks right through it, perhaps senselessly, curious to see what is on the other side.

All he sees is a small hut and a man tending to a flourishing garden.

He is old, and there is pain in his eyes, stories, horrors only he has seen. His hair is past the point of grayed, yet he carries himself tall, confident, secure.

It is only after a longer look that Chan sees how similar they really are, both seemingly holding the weight of the entire world on their shoulders.

“So you’re him,” the man turns around, dusting soil off of his glove-clad hands, “The avatar.”

“To be honest, I prefer Chan.”

He chuckles, and it lowers Chan’s guard. He recognizes the smile, thin lips puffing out rather hollowed cheeks, eyes crinkling as if Chan was fit to be a comedian, “Of course you do, boy. No one would want to be burdened with such a title-” He gets a far off look on his face as he mutters, “-forced to bare such responsibility.”

The man clears his throat, “I’m Soonyoung, if you didn’t know. But what I am really curious about is how you knew to find me. Few know that I still live, fewer know that I live in these mountains. Who sent you?”

Chan gulps, unsure of how to proceed, but he replies honestly, “Junhui of the Western Air Temple. He, um, sends his regards.”

“He is a good man, a good teacher. He must have cared for you well. Done it the right way, I would hope.” He shakes his head and walks towards Chan. “Clearly, you are not here for a social visit. What do you want?”

“They say that you trained with the previous avatar,” Chan says, carefully. The man’s head snaps up defensively, his eyes trained on Chan’s person. “That he learned a lot from you.”

“ _They_ say that do they? Tell me, what else do _they_ say,” the man asks him, the tone of his voice is spiteful. “What else have _they_ told you?”

Chan squares his shoulders and meets the man’s eyes. They are controlled and calculating, but he can sense his rage, heat searing through him as they stare each other down.

Soonyoung looks at him with a frown.

“Tell me, Chan, have they even told you his name? In all your time, have you ever heard them speak his name? Has Junhui even uttered it,” he asks bitterly, ripping each syllable up only to spit it out like the earth’s scum. “Do you even know his name? Your predecessor, your past life, do you know who he is?”

Chan can do nothing but shake his head.

Soonyoung sighs.

“I will not teach you, young avatar,” he sighs, “Not until you learn his name. Not until you say his name to me. You may follow the path to the base of the mountain. It is no more than a day’s trip to the nearest village.”

Chan frowns, backtracking slowly away from Soonyoung. He feels wrongfooted, unsure of what to do, of where to go. Nevertheless, he supposes the older man is right. How is he to be the avatar if he does not know the history of those before him, having been unable to tap into his avatar state thus far.

The pathway is on a steep incline, and at first he stumbles down it, tripping as he carefully makes his way down, before realizing that he was born an earthbender. It is a faster, more comfortable travel after that, as he lets the ground rise and fall as he steps from pillar to pillar, bending more as he moves.

Or that is the case, until he slips, misjudging his step. He panics, swinging from the just made structure by his left hand and hopes desperately that his hand will not slip.

It must be a blessing that he, the avatar, is so inexperienced in the face of near death. He supposes that it shows just how effective the military initiatives taken by the four nations have been, keeping crime at record lows so the avatar does not have to intervene.

Guilt is funny that way.

It is an interesting thing to think in his last moments. His hands continue to slip with no way of pushing himself back onto steady surface. He looks up to see his assailant. It is the man with tired eyes, who has faced more pain than he ever deserved. Soonyoung crouches down in front of him, looking at him curiously.

“If you’re serious about training with me, boy, the first rule is to never take no for an answer.”

Chan nods frantically, looking up at him with what is probably desperation. “Please, just help me up. I can’t hold on much longer.”

Soonyoung hums, sitting down by Chan’s dangling body, swinging his legs like a child. “It’s almost as if you’ll need to use your other bending techniques, instead of always relying on your mother element. A curious thought, don’t you think?”

“I can’t.” Chan gasps, eyes shut tightly, hold tightening frantically. “I don’t know how to. Please, please help me.”

He hears nothing for what feels like a long time, to uncertain to open his eyes. It is then that he feels a hand on his, veiny but not frail. It gets a good hold on his and yanks upwards, pulling Chan flat onto the surface of the rock.

“His name was Wonwoo, and it would do you good to remember that.”

* * *

 

Training with Soonyoung is tough. He is brutal, relentless in a way that Chan has never had to experience. It makes him realize just how much he has been mollycoddled, how cushy his life has been.

It frustrates Chan that, despite his grasp of the other elements, he still has yet to produce a simple flame on command. It has been months of doing laborious work with no fruition, and he wonders if Soonyoung is as disappointed in him as he is.

_Just snap your fingers to make a spark._

It is supposedly so easy, and Chan knows he can do it, he has released flames before, but somehow he has neither ambition nor ability to bend fire. He feels foolish sometimes, snapping his fingers aimlessly, hoping to incinerate them because then at least he could say he was able to produce something. It almost feels like the passage is closed, the one that would otherwise allow him to harness fire.

He groans flopping down on the floor. “At this rate, I’ll never be able to master it.” He informs Soonyoung, who simply looks up from his garden at Chan’s temper tantrum.

“When you think of fire, what do you associate it with,” Soonyoung asks, patting the soil with a gloved hand before walking towards Chan’s wayward body.

“I think that fire is dangerous. That I need to be careful of mastering it, because it is lethal,” Chan thinks to himself, “I need to be able to control it, to protect people. I need to be more powerful than it.” It’s an odd revelation to come to, that perhaps he fears the fire he so desperately wants to overcome.

Soonyoung hums in understanding, patting his knee, “And that is why you will never be able to produce a flame. Fire is not death or anger or destruction. It is love and passion, warmth and protection.

“The elders always speak of fire as a destructive force. It burns unyieldingly, devouring everything in its path until all that's left is devastation. Destruction. Death.” Soonyoung takes a deep breath, holding out his palm. There in his palm is a small ball of fire, not larger than the size of a marble, and it spins in place, never leaving the confines of Soonyoung’s hand.

“Tell me, do you think that the other elements are not capable of such devastation? That the earth is selfless in providing us ground to live upon, that it doesn’t discriminate in who it harms and who it protects? That the air we breathe is not the same air that causes cyclones to rip apart our homes and families and lives? That water isn’t so turbulent and powerful, that it can only be considered unpredictable at best?”

Chan watches the flames of the ball, ashes falling into Soonyoung’s palm. New fire grows from the inside, travelling outwards, and it sparks sparks something new with each passing second.

“What I’m sharing with you, what I learned years ago, what your predecessor failed to learn, is that we can never control the elements. How can we even think to control that which gives us life? Which give us beauty, culture, society, humanity. Without the elements,” Soonyoung flips his hand, and the ball of fire remains floating, this time over his knuckles, “We perish.”

“That is the secret to bending, young avatar. You cannot demand anything from the elements. You are not the master, you are not the teacher.” Soonyoung lets the ball grow bigger in his hand, closing his eyes as it morphs into a face. One that looks like Chan, but also not like him at all. “You must show them respect. You are their vessel. Let them guide you.” He lets the face dissipate, the fire seemingly evaporates, but Chan is tingling. He looks around them and sees blue flames surrounding them, warm but powerful. A comforting type of fire. “That’s what bending truly is.”

Chan is floored. He has always been that way, understanding and receptive, but never in his life has he been asked to change his fundamental ways of existing. Never in his life has he wanted to.

It likely shows on his face, he has always had trouble hiding his emotions, because Soonyoung simply pats him on the cheek. “Go to bed, we will try again tomorrow.”

He has gotten used to using his bag as a pillow, and a spare quilt for a blanket. Soonyoung’s house runs fairly hot, but maybe that is because he has candles and torches lit up to ward off predators and, more importantly, mosquitoes.

He closes his eyes and drifts off to sleep. The mind is an interesting place, full of mystery and stories and secrets that one keeps hidden from themselves. Sometimes, when he thinks he is asleep, he feels more like an astral projection, watching the memories swim in his head, battling to stay present. It is hard to explore in the thoughts in these moments, they seem too flimsy to hold onto, slipping out of his grasp when he holds onto them. It is nights like these that prefers insomnia rather than endless bouts of frustration.

There is one memory he sees. It is of a young Soonyoung and a faceless man. They kneel in the middle of a grand room, heads down. They are young, younger than he is, but not innocent. They look like men who have faced the world and survived, yet somehow, in this moment, they must face something even more unimaginable.

He cannot hear the words they are saying, but the woman in front of them must say something offensive because Chan watches as the faceless man flinches and Soonyoung’s hands clench into tight fists. The torches leaning away from the wall begin to burn, and Chan knows where this is, what this is. The throne room of the Nation’s palace is legendary, and as he watches the flames travel towards the portrait of the prince, engulfing it into flames, he sees the reason why. This Soonyoung stands up, grabbing the faceless man’s hand in his, their fingers naturally intertwining in an intimate way. He pulls him up as well, and bows extravagantly, mockingly. Soonyoung grabs the pin from his hair, the one intended to signify his title, and drops it at the woman’s feet, letting his hair tumble unapologetically out of the bun it was in, falling just past his shoulders.

The two walk away, Soonyoung’s steps just a little too fast to be considered confident and unaffected. When the faceless man turns around, his face is perfectly clear. The angular slope of the nose, the slight squint in his eyes, as if Chan is too far away for him to see properly, the floppy hair pushed away from his forehead. He does not look at the woman or at the charred portrait. He looks right at Chan.

Jolting awake, Chan shoots out of his sleeping position, only to find that he is not in Soonyoung’s home. Instead he sees rows of people he does not know, in a field, simply looking at him. Some are smiling, some are frowning, but there is a man kneeling in front of him, hand held outstretched, as if to pull him up.

Chan is not foolish. His mother taught him to be wary of strangers so he scrambles back, heart pounding.

“Who are you?” He demands, “Why were you in my head?” He looks around, but the field is no longer filled with bodies. It is just the man and him.

The man stays where he is, hands out in a placating manner. “Who do you think I am, young avatar. Who do you think I could possibly be?”

Chan peers up at him, face contorting from confusion to disbelief. “You’re him. Wonwoo, the previous avatar.”  

He looks so young, a man unfairly taken from the world too soon.

He nods, clicking his tongue, “Don’t think like that. Everything happens for a reason. I have had a long time to rationalize why I had to die, and I think it was necessary for the years of peace that have followed. It was necessary for me to do what I did.”

“Do you really believe that?” Chan pulls at a blade of grass. “I think about how they slandered your name, how defenseless you were against their wrongful convictions. It scares me,” he looks up at Wonwoo, whose face is still serene, free of care, “How quickly will they turn their backs on me when their guilt consumes them? How soon will they change the narrative to demonize me as well? What do I owe them to be burdened with this power that I did not ask for?”

“The people who matter will never question your character. You have met many of those who have yet to question mine,” Wonwoo nudges him with his foot. “The power you are given is neither a blessing nor a curse. It is a choice, and the only power you have is to choose. Destiny is funny like that. It is open ended but only just.”

They sit quietly and Chan wonders how much time has passed in the real world, if Soonyoung has ambled into the living room only to see Chan’s frozen body laying there.

And then he remembers.

“What was that you showed me? Of you and Soonyoung in the throne room.”

Wonwoo lays down in the grass, but does not say anything for a while.

“Soonyoung has hardened in his old age,” it is a painful smile on his face now, “He is a calmer man than I have ever known, but he has given so much for me. And he is doing it again, to train you. I want you to honor that, respect it, never take it for granted. He is a good man.”

Chan can detect there is much he is not saying but before he can push, Wonwoo sighs, standing up, brushing off the grass from his body. “Enough of this for today, however. I imagine it is time for you to resume training.”

“Well, what are you going to do in the meantime?”

Wonwoo looks around the field, and Chan sees that the other avatar spirits have returned. “I think I’ll just loiter for a bit.”

“So this is what you all do?” Chan asks dumbfounded, “Stand around until I need you?”

“It may not be the best after death gig,” Wonwoo shrugs, “But it is a small price to pay for being the most powerful man alive.”

Chan does not really believe him, but Wonwoo just laughs, so it must be a joke. “Do you, um, just stand around in the field, or can you do other things, like drink tea or play Pai Sho with the other avatars?”

“If you’re so curious,” Wonwoo leans in close, slinging his arm around Chan’s shoulders, “Why don’t you cross over and find out.”

Junhui was right. The man does have a bad sense of humor.

“I like you least of all,” Chan pushes him away, lightly, and Wonwoo lets out a loud laugh.

He feels himself regaining conscience, and maybe that is why Wonwoo’s body starts fading away.

“Wait, how will I find you, if I need you,” Chan asks frantically, eyes opening in a panic.

Soonyoung is there, staring down at him with raised brows. “Well, all things considered, I suppose it is about time you’d talk to one of them.” He starts for the door, before turning around, “I think it’s time we try producing that flame again.”

Chan stumbles out, not necessarily more confident, but not as overwhelmed as he has been for the past couple months. He takes a breath, and snaps his fingers, willing for even a spark to emerge from the tips of his fingers.

Nothing happens, and so he tries again.

Still nothing.

And so he tries it again, except this time his eyes shut and all he sees is his mother laying on her deathbed, or cot more like it. He watches a younger version of himself singe the flowers he had grown so painstakingly. He looks at her face, so soft and round, her glasses placed on the table next to her, waiting for her to wake up, waiting to be put on her face. But she does not wake.

Something inside of him breaks. Had he forgotten about her? So constantly looking to the future that he forgot about his entire past. It fuels a resentment inside of him, a bubbling type of rage that he does not know to tame. It takes over, burning his insides, filling him with a searing heat he cannot even imagine.

He snaps and opens his eyes. The residual embers of his successful attempt at producing fire feels a lot like shame, like guilt.

“That wasn’t bad,” Soonyoung says, softly. It is like he can feel it too. “What were you thinking about?”

He only feels disappointment as he shakily responds, “My mother. The first time I firebended, it was like I burned her out of my memory. I haven’t thought about her in years.”

Soonyoung hums in understanding. “Absence is not the same as forgetting. It is important to consider if the pain you feel is because you have forgotten your mother or because you choose not to think of her often.” When Chan does not respond, he taps the floor with his foot, “Try it again. But this time, let what you feel fuel you.”

And so Chan does. He uses any pent up emotion he has to drive his bending. It feels therapeutic, like he is learning to let go.

Training continues as such, making slow progress as he hones in on the skills necessary for firebending. They work on forms that require a lot more leg movement and different traditional formations that Chan’s muscles are not used to. Soonyoung teaches it to him like it is dancing, forcing him to control the fire that so suddenly wants to escape from his limbs with every step.

Soonyoung’s teaching is formulaic, follows a pattern of expectation and implementation, but at the same time it is completely sporadic, lessons changing with what he wants to teach and how he wants to teach it.

Four months later, on the day that Chan finally masters the basics, he decides to broach an unspoken topic while Soonyoung prepares dinner.

“How did you know him,” Chan asks. He’s laying on the floor of Soonyoung’s home. The door is open and the sound of birds ring through the air.

“How did I know who,” Soonyoung calls out to him, not looking up from the pot he is stirring.

“Junhui, Wonwoo,” Chan lists, “Even Jihoon, I guess. Any of them really.”

Soonyoung looks up to smile at him, “I believe that is in fact the first time you have ever said his name.”

Chan has not had much of a reason to say his name since that night so long ago. He has waited for Wonwoo to show him more, to guide him, yet all he gets are slippery stories that tuck themselves away into pockets in his mind.

“Tell me about him.”

Soonyoung’s smile does not disappear. Instead, it becomes brighter, fonder, and he turns back to the pot on the stove, stirring it carefully. “Wonwoo was a good man. Honest, just, forgiving. He gave far too much to the world, asking for nothing in return. There were five of us, initially. The avatar and his council, so to speak. Jihoon, represented the Kingdom, Junhui, the Temples, I represented the Nation, and then there was pretty little Myungeun, in support of the Tribes. And Wonwoo, of course, the man who was expected to save us all.

“We were hand picked by the elders to help the avatar maintain peace. It was an initiative during the uprisings. We would travel from temple to village to tribe, working with the people, squandering rebellions, working to create a safer world as the leaders had dictated. Working from the bottom up, spreading around the law of the land.” Soonyoung frowns a little, “What we did not realize was how corrupt the system was. How we were perpetuating systems of power that allowed so many communities to be abused, to be mistreated, to be forgotten. We were silencing them, forcing them into submission. As we continued our travels, we realized that people were more scared of the avatar, than reassured by his presence, and that really affected Wonwoo. That the leaders of the nations were using the avatar’s reputation to expand and increasingly control their regimes.

“So we did what we were intended to do. We fought back. We negotiated peace treaties that favored the people, elected officials that were ready to create fundamental change in the political systems, protecting people’s right to protest. And it was all going so well, you know. It was going really well, but it really took a toll on Wonwoo. It changed him in a way that no one could bring him back from. His savior complex, the burden he took upon himself, it was too much. It cost us too much,” Soonyoung pauses for a moment, looking up at the pitch black sky.

“Do you miss him?”

“Sometimes. But then I remember that his soul lives on inside of you. And I remember that he’s somewhere up there,” he looks at the night sky, “dancing on the moon, perhaps. And he is safe and happy, and that’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

Dinner is a peaceful time between the two, harmlessly making quips at each other, understanding each other better. Chan supposes Soonyoung just wants to know more about the man closest to his friend. It is comfortable, safe.

The night is cool, comforting, but Chan cannot fall asleep. Soonyoung has long since returned to his room, shut the door tightly so as to not let the chilled air enter. He lays there, looking around at the home Soonyoung has made for himself in the mountains. The foundation is sturdy, the logs of the house. He closes eyes ready for another night of evasive dreams. Instead, he finds himself on a mountain, overlooking an ocean. Wonwoo sits next to him, somber.

Chan wants to shake him, ask why he has not been able to reach him in so long, how he can access his former lives, learn from their wisdom, from their experiences. Instead, he waits.

“What do you know about the moon goddess?” Wonwoo asks quietly.

“Well, I know the princess of the Northern Water Tribe sacrificed herself.” Chan says, through mouthfuls of food, “Princess Yue took over as the moon spirit and preserved waterbending.”

Wonwoo shakes his head. “I asked you, not of the moon spirit, but of the moon goddess. Have they ever taught you about her sacrifice? Do they share her story?”

Chan thinks back to his education. His mother sometimes told him about the moon goddess, when she talked about her childhood. She told him how before the height of the civil unrest, the nations would unite to celebrate her. Junhui mentioned her, as well. He still remembers her, worships her, as some do. Most do not care to utter her name. They choose not to associate with her, as she associated with his former self, in all of his infamous disgrace. They say he was blessed by the night, that no matter where he stood, where he went, moonlight would shine upon him. When he disappeared, when they killed him, she cursed the moon, sent the sky into pitch blackness. These days, nighttime is an omen.

Wonwoo sighs at his silence, sparks buzzing around him angrily. Waves crash against the shore, as the man closes his eyes, trying to breathe evenly.

“Myungeun was a talented waterbender. A childlike soul, you know. Lively, compassionate, precious, she was my everything.” Wonwoo takes a deep breath, nose flaring as he tries to steady himself. “Sometimes, I would have these trips, where I would lock myself in the avatar state, so hellbent on fixing every problem, saving every person. They tell you not to give any one person priority over another, but I did. I thought that if I was fast enough, I could save them both. The woman I loved and the man that loved me.”

Chan watches as the scenery around them changes. They are still by the ocean, but there are mobs of people surrounding them, a woman is strapped to a pyre and a man is hanging being held unconscious in the ocean, limbs tied.

She is screaming, tears streaming down her face as a young Wonwoo starts towards her. She is shaking her head frantically, commanding him to go towards the water.

“This was the hardest day of my life, you know.” Wonwoo says softly, looking at the woman crying, “The village loved her, the woman that healed and protected, that loved and laughed. They wanted to immortalize her, they had the means to preserve her soul, by ridding her of her meaningless human body. They knew that I would save her, or that I would die trying. We all would. So they trapped Jihoon in a tower made of metal, put Junhui in a cage underground, and made me choose who to save. The thing is, Soonyoung doesn’t know how to swim.”

Chan watches in shock, as Soonyoung falls and does not resurface. Wonwoo looks at the girl one last time before running towards the water, desperately trying to recover Soonyoung’s sinking body. Chan turns around, unable to watch as Wonwoo frantically parts the water, trying to find him, and is met with a sight that is possibly even worse. He watches as, who he assumes to be, the chief lights the pyre, petting her hair softly as she jerks away from him. She does not scream, does not do anything more than stand there, accepting her fate for what it is. He watches as she is engulfed in flames and the swarms of people bow down.

He feels sick.

The ritual forges on, an old mage starts chanting as the woman’s, Myungeun’s, spirit rises high into the night sky. Young Wonwoo drags Soonyoung out of the ocean, and Chan can see Jihoon and Junhui stumbling onto the beach. The four meet, frozen, as they stare at the remnants of her body.

The memory dissipates, like walking through fog, and Chan is suddenly in a new memory. This one seems intimate, the setting is familiar. It is the clearing where Soonyoung’s house is. Soonyoung’s hair is still long, Wonwoo’s is still shaggy, and Junhui holds a woman as they march through the forest. She is holding something, a pot of some kind.

Spirit Wonwoo looks on with hardened eyes.  
“I didn’t believe that deities existed the way spirits did until we lost her. It didn’t seem like loss, because she continued to look out for me. This is Jihoon’s burial place. By the house, I mean. He was the youngest out of the five of us. The most loyal, the most protective, the most righteous.” Wonwoo smiles, stepping closer to the scattered ashes.

The sky is clear, sans the moon high above. The added layer of tree cover lends to the coolness of the night, but Junhui stands suddenly, lifting his hands up to create a gust of wind that forces the branches to accommodate as he asks them too. Chan looks up to see a funnel of light from the sky to Jihoon, the moonlight shining on him.

“I wasn’t certain until this day.” Wonwoo smiles softly, “I felt it was her blessing, telling me to move on.”

There is fog once more, and suddenly Chan feels too much like he is walking into something too personal for an outsider to see.

Wonwoo and Soonyoung sit side by side, looking over the railing of the airship, over the lively kingdom, even during the lull of the night, Soonyoung will one day rule.

Soonyoung sighs, “Love is supposed to be easy and loss is supposed to be hard. So why does it seem like it is the other way around?”

Wonwoo hums, staring up at the sky. Soonyoung’s eyes follow his line of sight, their gazes settling on the moon. Soonyoung makes new constellations in the stars.

Soonyoung looks away from the wave he is drawing into the sky, to Wonwoo, shocked to see a haunted look on his face, a pained smile slip over as he looks up at the moon.

“That’s my girlfriend.” Wonwoo empties water from the vial he carries around, creating an orb of water that whizzes around their heads. It’s not enough to distract Soonyoung from Wonwoo’s bitter smile. “I’m proud of her for what she did. But is it selfish that I never wanted her to leave me behind?”

Soonyoung shakes his head, unsure of what to say.

“My first girlfriend turned into the moon.” Wonwoo calls out loudly if not a little maniacally, a deprecating smirk tugs on his lips as he fills his vial again with the water.

Soonyoung blinks.

“That’s rough, buddy.”

Wonwoo bursts out laughing, eyes crinkling. “What about my first boyfriend? How will he turn out?”

Soonyoung holds out his palm, smiling when Wonwoo takes it. They look so young like this, deserving of happiness, of success, of youth.

Chan turns to Wonwoo, with curious eyes when he feels a shock to his side. His eyes snap open, and he sees Soonyoung with a blanket draped over his body, huffing angrily as his eyes roam around the room.

It is a mess. Scrolls are strewn across the ground, parchment sticking to walls, and stationary trapped behind nooks and crannies that he would rather not be forced to discover. Instead, he smiles sheepishly at the elder man and shrugs.

“Go to bed, we’ll clean it up in the morning,” Soonyoung huffs, retreating back to his room.

Chan tries, but he is met with even more questions, and even more confusion about what lies in store for him as well.

Somehow, months amble on into three full years. He is nearly thirty, spending most of his time practicing bending and other time trying to learn more about his elusive mentor. He has not spoken to the outside world in ages, but has never forgotten that his life is intended for more than just life on a mountain.

Sometimes, he meets other avatar spirits. Minghao, from the Nation in 500 AG, has taught him a lot of tricks, helped him practice his firebending techniques, and Seungcheol, the Kingdom avatar before Chan himself, liked to share about the old Kingdom days while they sparred. Wonwoo seemed to have disappeared, though.

Outside of the spirit world, he alternates his time between training, using the clearing as a means to practice his mastery of the four elements, worrying for what comes next, and observing his mentor.

He has never realized how sad Soonyoung moves, as only half of a whole, a dancer without his partner, no longer broken but never properly healed.

They are sparring one day, and Chan catches Soonyoung off guard, grazing him lightly on the shoulder, singeing his shirt slightly.

Soonyoung chuckles, “I imagine that if you can land such a controlled hit on me, then you have learned more than I ever hoped I could teach you.”

Chan stands up straight, mouth tinged with something bittersweet, something like a goodbye.

“What do you think of, when you bend. What drives you?”

Patting his hand on the ground next to him, Soonyoung looks him in the eyes and smiles.

“My perfectly fallible infallible man.” He says it with a teasing smile and Chan cannot help but smile back. Serene, at peace.

It is a pleasant, comfortable feeling.

The night before he leaves, Chan looks for a memory buried deep in his mind. It is tactile, omnipresent, the biggest secret of them all. He does not grab for the memory, simply letting it consume him, letting it allow him in.

He sees him there, sitting by Jihoon’s ashes, staring out into the clearing. Chan takes a seat next to him, watching as his predecessor bravely runs into battle, alone as the four nations face off, aiming to conquer it as their own.

“I was wondering when you would come here, you know,” Wonwoo says quietly, watching as his body tries to maintain the peace. “Soonyoung told me not to come here that day. He said that it was not my responsibility to fix such a broken system. I tried to explain to him that it was my choice, that I was ready to die. I guess I forgot that my death impacted more than just me. I don’t regret what I did. I had an infinite amount of happiness, that I would never ask to erase or do over. I wish I was able to tell him that.”

Chan cannot tear his eyes away from the battlefield, Wonwoo’s words faintly registering in his mind. He is stricken as a collaborative attack strikes Wonwoo in the back. He falls and does not get back up. He feels the silence that falls upon them, despite not being able to hear anything at all. The panic that ensues is underwhelming, the nations working together to bury his body, hiding it far below the surface of the earth.

“How do I go back, when that is what is waiting for me?” Chan asks him, softly, fearfully.  
The moon does not rise that night. The forest does not yield, creating a treacherous path that the remaining armies stumble through. Warriors fall, wounded by the trees, swallowed by the ground they stand on. While the soldiers charge forward, the forest fights on.

There is fog again, and this time the memory is not Wonwoo’s, but his own.

He stands up to see a young Yein tucking a note into his sack. He looks so scrawny, a lost look on his face, shoulders hunched over as he runs a hand through his cropped hair. She looks just as he remembers her, young, precious, lovely.

“It seems that there is something more waiting for you,” Wonwoo smiles, stepping back. “I think, it is time for me to kick Seungcheol’s ass in Pai Sho.”

“I knew it.” He says, looking at Wonwoo’s fading projection.

Chan’s wrestles the quilt off of him, grabbing his bag and rummaging loudly through it. He pulls out Yein’s letter. It is thoroughly crumpled but he smooths it out, attempting to make out the words she’s written. The ink has faded over time, the parchment an odd yellowish color.

_Come home._

He smiles down at it, purposefully smoothing it out some more, when Soonyoung stumbles out of his bedroom in a daze.

“You can never have your spirit bonding moments quietly, can you,” he grumbles, patting down his white hair.

“He wanted you to know he was sorry.” Chan fumbles out, still smiling down at his letter. “I just thought you’d ought to know.”

“No, he wanted you to know he was sorry,” Soonyoung says softly, “He knows I forgave him a long time ago.”

When Chan finally departs, it is in the dead of the night. Yein’s letter is clutched tightly in his hands. He does not want to leave, he feels safe here, but he knows that he could never be happy here. Not truly.

“Promise me, avatar, that no matter path you take, no matter what you do, you will not let him continue to be bastardized. You will not let his sacrifice be in vain.” Soonyoung’s voice wavers.

“You could always come with me, you know.” Chan knows it is a lost cause, but he cannot help the lilt of hope that seeps into his offer.

Soonyoung smiles at him, “My place is here, with Wonwoo. Your place, Chan, is out there, with the world.” He opens his arms out to give Chan a reassuring hug, but the taller man cannot help but sink into his arms, sniffling just a little. “Nice try if you thought you were off the hook. I expect annual visits, perhaps around the winter time, when it is especially cold. You can bring that Yein female you mutter on about so often in the night.”

They break apart, Chan’s face ever so flushed.

“Send Junhui my regards. Tell him there is always a room available for him here, one with a high ceiling for his stupid giraffe neck.”

Chan grins, waving his final goodbye, and finally heading home.

Purpose does not always have to be extravagant. For Chan, it is not to be the almighty avatar. It is nothing more than a mission, to spread truth and justice, to protect the people he loves, and to love as strongly as he has ever known.

As he heads down the steep path, moonlight shines down at him.

Bowing his head as though greeting an old friend, he smiles.

* * *

_The color of love is blue. Like a flame, it burns hot, surrounding itself with warmth, conceals itself in hues of red. Like the ocean, it’s turbulent, aggressive then calm, the converging place where all the elements meet._

_Wonwoo and Soonyoung sit, hands clasped together after a long day of running, of fighting, of serving without gratitude._

_“Hey Soon-ah,” Wonwoo says, looking at the rocky, winding road that led them to this spot. It is one of the few parts of the mountain left untainted by the war. He looks back at Soonyoung, but the other man is already there, right beside him the way he has been for so long. “When all of this is over, I want to build a house right here, far away from the river, from the nation. I want to build a house to live in, with you.”_

_It is an unspoken offer, a blatant request._ _Wonwoo squeezes his hand and smiles._

 _“The door should face the forest, for Jihoon. And high ceilings, I think. Junhui would like that. And a roof that lets her in. Myungeun, I mean.” He smiles softly, leaning into Soonyoung’s side. “I think this is the place I want to spend the_ _rest of my life with you. What do you think?”_

_The mountains have always protected them, kept them safe, warm, well-fed. Up in the mountains, they can strip down to their most vulnerable selves, just two boys who were forced to become men too early. Here they can cry, they can scream, they can feel pain and sorrow for all they left behind, and for all that is yet to come. Here they can love unconditionally, endlessly, forever._

_“Forever.”_

**Author's Note:**

> hey if you're reading this on (Jan 16) it is my birthday pls go comment down below and click that subscribe button xoxo check out my last video over there and my vlogs over there love u all bye :*
> 
> in all honesty though, this fic style was a lot different than what i usually write so i hope you enjoyed it! also to the prompter, i revealed myself to you way early on i hope i did it justice!


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